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Chapter Three
MILDRED HESITATED AS she observed her cousin taking his gloves and hat from the groom. He was taking his leave and would not be pleased to tarry. But if she did not speak with him now, she knew not when they would next meet. Resolved, she approached him.
“Alastair, may I have a minute of your time?” she asked, reminding herself that the frown he wore was customary and its cause need not be attributed to her alone.
He turned his dark and penetrating gaze upon her, and, as she had come to stand closer to him than she’d intended, she was quite conscious of how much taller and broader he was than her, though she was no petite maiden.
“My God, you look dreadfully pale, Millie,” he drawled in his rich baritone.
A more mannered woman of society might take exception to such a greeting, but Mildred did not mind dispensing with the niceties. “I know it. Mother made me apply at least six coats of powder.”
“It looks terrible. I would not recommend it.”
“Thank you for your counsel, but I did not come seeking your advice on my toilette. Rather, I had hoped to have a minute with you—”
He raised his brows. “A minute?”
“A few minutes,” she corrected as she fiddled with her necklace of pearls. “I know you are eager to attend your gaming hells and will not trespass too much upon your time.”
He seemed slightly amused that she knew his destination. “A few minutes then, Millie, and only because I know you are economical with your conversation—an uncommon trait in your sex.”
“I am much obliged, sir.” Feeling the gazes of Helen, Margaret and Jane upon her, she delayed her own purpose for the moment. “I take it you will not stay for the dancing?”
His look of boredom was her answer.
“You would make many a woman happy if you did,” Mildred said.
“I would raise many a false expectation,” he returned.
“Do you know my friend Jane? I think Henry Westley takes an interest in her—”
“Millie, what is the purpose of our tête-à-tête?”
She took a fortifying breath and adjusted her pearls. “I have not had the chance to thank you for providing my dowry.”
He groaned. “If I had known my provision would engender such a fuss, I would not have done it.”
She perked. “Then don’t.”
He was taken aback, a rare occasion, for very little surprised or even seemed to interest the marquess. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t provide for my dowry. I would rather you had not.”
He stared at her as if looking for signs of madness.
“I am not yet ready to marry,” she explained.
“But it is done. Your father introduced me to your intended tonight.”
“And what think you of him, Alastair?”
“You have no wish to know my opinions. They are rarely ever favorable.”
“They could not be worse than mine on this matter.”
“If you don’t like the fellow, why did you accept his hand?”
“Father impressed upon me that I had to. I was overcome, I think, by guilt and a sense of responsibility to my family—I am not you, Alastair. I cannot dismiss what others expect of me.”
